No, she wouldn't have said handsome, but arresting, in a big and tough sort of way. The sort of tough that looked like a bunched fist would bounce right off him, doing a lot more damage to the puncher
than the punchee.
She smiled, though she wondered where Roz was, or Harper. Or somebody.
"I'm sorry. We're not open yet this morning. Is there something I can do for you?"
Oh, he knew that voice. That crisp, cool voice that had left him annoying messages about functional organizational plans and production goals.
He'd expected her to look like she'd sounded—a usual mistake, he supposed. There wasn't much cool
and crisp about that wild red hair she was trying to control with that stupid-looking kerchief, or the wariness in those big blue eyes.
"You moved my damn trees."
"I'm sorry?"
"Well, you ought to be. Don't do it again."
"I don't know what you're talking about." She kept a grip on the bucket—just in case—and stepped
down the ladder. "Did you order some trees? If I could have your name, I'll see if I can find your
order. We're implementing a new system, so—"
"I don't have to order anything, and I don't like your new system. And what the hell are you doing in here? Where is everything?"
His voice sounded local to her, with a definite edge of nasty impatience. "I think it would be best if you came back when we're open. Winter hours start at ten a.m. If you'd leave me your name..." She edged toward the counter and the phone.
"It's Kitridge, and you ought to know since you've been nagging me brainless for damn near a week."
"I don't know ... oh. Kitridge." She relaxed, fractionally. "The landscape designer. And I haven't been nagging," she said with more heat when her brain caught up. "I've been trying to contact you so we
could schedule a meeting. You haven't had the courtesy to return my calls. I certainly hope you're not
as rude with clients as you are with coworkers."
"Rude? Sister, you haven't seen rude."
"I have two sons," she snapped back. "I've seen plenty of rude. Roz hired me to put some order into
her business, to take some of the systemic load off her shoulders, to—"
"Systemic?" His gaze rose to the ceiling like a man sending out a prayer. "Jesus, are you always going
to talk like that?"
She took a calming breath. "Mr. Kitridge, I have a job to do. Part of that job is dealing with the landscaping arm of this business. It happens to be a very important and profitable arm."
"Damn right. And it's my frigging arm."
"It also happens to be ridiculously disorganized and apparently run like a circus. I've been finding little scraps of paper and hand-scribbled orders and invoices—if you can call them that—all week."
"So?"
"So, if you'd bothered to return my calls and arrange for a meeting, I could have explained to you how this arm of the business will now function."
"Oh, is that right?" That west Tennessee tone took on a soft and dangerous hue. "You're going to
explain it to me."
"That's exactly right. The system I'm implementing will, in the end, save you considerable time and
effort with computerized invoices and inventory, client lists and designs, with—"
He was sizing her up. He figured he had about a foot on her in height, probably a good hundred pounds
in bulk. But the woman had a mouth on her. It was what his mother would have called bee stung—pretty—and apparently it never stopped flapping.
"How the hell is having to spend half my time on a computer going to save me anything?"
"Once the data is inputted, it will. At this point, you seem to be carrying most of this information in
some pocket, or inside your head."
"So? If it's in a pocket, I can find it. If it's in my head, I can find it there, too. Nothing wrong with my memory."
"Maybe not. But tomorrow you may be run over by a truck and spend the next five years in a coma." That pretty mouth smiled, icily. "Then where will we be?"
"Being as I'd be in a coma, I wouldn't be worried about it. Come out here."
He grabbed her hand, pulled her toward the door. "Hey!" she managed. Then, "Hey!"
"This is business." He yanked open the door and kept pulling her along. "I'm not dragging you off to a cave."
"Then let go." His hands were hard as rock, and just as rough. And his legs, she realized, as he strode away from the building, ate up ground in long, hurried bites and forced her into an undignified trot.
"Just a minute. Look at that."
He gestured toward the tree and shrub area while she struggled to get her breath back. "What about it?"
"It's messed up."
"It certainly isn't. I spent nearly an entire day on this area." And had the aching muscles to prove it. "It's cohesively arranged so if a customer is looking for an ornamental tree, he—or a member of the staff—
can find the one that suits. If the customer is looking for a spring-blooming shrub or—"
"They're all lined up. What did you use, a carpenter's level? People come in here now, how can they
get a picture of how different specimens might work together?"
"That's your job and the staff's. We're here to help and direct the customer to possibilities as well as
their more definite wants. If they're wandering around trying to find a damn hydrangea—"
"They might just spot a spirea or camellia they'd like to have, too."
He had a point, and she'd considered it. She wasn't an idiot. "Or they may leave empty-handed because they couldn't easily find what they'd come for in the first place. Attentive and well-trained staff should be able to direct and explore with the customer. Either way has its pros and cons, but I happen to like this way better. And it's my call.
"Now." She stepped back. "If you have the time, we need to—"
"I don't." He stalked off toward his truck.
"Just wait." She jogged after him. "We need to talk about the new purchase orders and invoicing system."
"Send me a frigging memo. Sounds like your speed."
"I don't want to send you a frigging memo, and what are you doing with those trees?"
'Taking them home." He pulled open the truck door, climbed in.
"What do you mean you're taking them home? I don't have any paperwork on these."
"Hey, me neither." After slamming the door, he rolled the window down a stingy inch. "Step back, Red. Wouldn't want to run over your toes."
"Look. You can't just take off with stock whenever you feel like it."
"Take it up with Roz. If she's still the boss. Otherwise, better call the cops." He gunned the engine, and when she stumbled back, zipped into reverse. And left her staring after him.
Cheeks pink with temper, Stella marched back toward the building. Serve him right, she thought, just serve him right if she did call the police. She snapped her head up, eyes hot, as Roz opened the door.
"Was that Logan's truck?"
"Does he work with clients?"
"Sure. Why?"
"You're lucky you haven't been sued. He storms in, nothing but complaints. Bitch, bitch, bitch," Stella muttered as she swung past Roz and inside. "He doesn't like this, doesn't like that, doesn't like any
damn thing as far as I can tell. Then he drives off with a truckload of trees and shrubs."
Roz rubbed her earlobe thoughtfully. "He does have his moods."
"Moods? I only saw one, and I didn't like it." She yanked off the kerchief, tossed it on the counter.
"Pissed you off, did he?"
"In spades. I'm trying to do what you hired me to do, Roz."
"I know. And so far I don't believe I've made any comments or complaints that could qualify as bitch, bitch, bitch."
Stella sent her a horrified look. "No! Of course not. I didn't mean—God."
"We're in what I'd call an adjustment period. Some don't adjust as smoothly as others. I like most of
your ideas, and others I'm willing to give a chance. Logan's used to doing things his own way, and